“Gian-nah-tah, you are a fool!” said Shoz-Dijiji. “Of all the things that the white-eyed men have to offer the Apache only their weapons and their ammunition are of any value to us—all else is vile. And you, Gian-nah-tah, choose the vilest. You are a fool!
“Our own tizwin and the mescal of the Mexicans is bad medicine, but this fire-water of the white-eyed men is poison. To drink it is the madness of a fool, but even worse is the drinking of it in friendship with the white-eyed dogs.
“You are a fool to drink it—you are a traitor to drink with the enemies of your people. Put down the glass and the bottle, and come with me!”
Gian-nah-tah looked up angrily now. Already he had had a couple of drinks of the vile concoction, and they had had their effect upon him.
“Gian-nah-tah is a warrior!” he exclaimed, “not a child. Who are you to tell Gian-nah-tah to do this, or not to do that, or to come or go?”
“I am his best friend,” said Shoz-Dijiji, simply.
“Then go away and mind your own business!” snapped Gian-nah-tah, and he raised the glass to his lips.
With the swift, soft sinuosity of a cat Shoz-Dijiji stepped forward and struck the glass from his friend’s hand and almost in the same movement seized the bottle and hurled it to the floor.
“Here, you damn Siwash!” cried Cheetim; “what the hell you think you’re doin’?” He advanced belligerently. Shoz-Dijiji turned upon the white man. Towering above him he gave the fellow one look that sent him cowering back. Perhaps it was fortunate for the peace of San Carlos that “Dirty” Cheetim had left his gun behind the bar, for he was the type of bad-man that shoots an unarmed adversary.
But Gian-nah-tah, Be-don-ko-he warrior, was not thus a coward; and his finer sensibilities were numbed by the effects of the whiskey he had drunk. He did not shrink from Shoz-Dijiji. Instead, he whipped his knife from its scabbard and struck a savage blow at the breast of his best friend.